Stay
by ncfan
Summary: "I was hoping you would come back to Tirion with me, Mother." AU.


You can consider this a sequel or continuation of a oneshot I wrote a couple of months back, _Heavy is the Head_, but I don't think you have to have read it to understand this. It does, however, exist in the same alternate universe as _Heavy is the Head_.

I own nothing.

* * *

"Are you sure you are well, Findis?"

Findis has never appreciated being asked that question, because in all her life, she has yet to meet someone who actually wants an honest answer to the question. All they want is to hear that person say 'yes' so that they can deny accountability when something happens later. No one actually wants to deal with the repercussions of a problem actually being confided in them. No one really wants to hear 'no.' Especially not out of her. Most assume that with Findis, what you see is what you get, that her calm, quiet demeanor meant that she was calm and quiet all the way through. There couldn't possibly be really anything wrong with Findis, so everyone who ever asks her 'Are you well?' expects her to say 'yes.' They want her to say 'yes.'

However, that's no reason to be rude. Being rude just alienates family or friends, and that's not prudent, even if Findis is a member of the ruling family of the Noldor. Especially not prudent, now that she finds herself High Queen, in the absence of all others who could wear the crown.

And besides, the one who asks her this question is her uncle who coddled her and let her confide in him when she was small. Who also happens to be High King of _all _the Elves, not just the Vanyar. Being polite is a must.

Findis summons a weary smile to her face, knowing that Ingwë will not be able to discern the weariness in the darkness that hangs over Taniquetil, as it must and indeed does hang over all of Aman, and whatever lies beyond it, beyond the vast seas. _The seas that, even now, my brothers and sister plan to cross. May have already crossed. May have drowned within, with all of their children and the others who followed them. _When such a thought crosses her mind, as it sometimes does, the idea of saying that she is well becomes a near impossibility.

But Findis nods anyways, and pats her uncle's arm, and smiles her weary smile. "Yes, Uncle. I am well."

They walk down the streets of Taniquetil, Findis feeling the weight of her gold circlet, however delicate it may be, press down ever heavier upon her forehead. It is not meet, she knows, to leave Tirion so soon after… after… after all that's happened. It is not meet to leave her people alone in times of darkness, to leave them to flounder about and try to endure the loss of their loved ones, the loss of the Trees, their estrangement from all other peoples of the Calaquendi. _But it is any more meet to leave me alone during these times? Mother…_

The streets are nearly silent. That in itself is just another signal of the wrongness of this everlasting dark, broken only by torches and lanterns. There are no bonfires, no sweet and heady incense burning, none of the telltale sounds of music or dance, nor the cries of the Vanyar who seek to sell their goods. Those few who are in the streets bow to them, to Ingwë as their King, and to Findis, though whether as the Queen of the Noldor or the daughter of their King's sister, Findis can not say, and does not wish to know.

There is, at least, one advantage to the eerie quiet and the near-emptiness of the streets. This is one of the last times Findis will be able to wear one of her gauzy shawls up over her head as a Vanyarin nís would—it is the only concession she makes to her mother's people in dress, but her people want a _Noldo _as their Queen (if they have to have a Queen at all, and can't have one of their late High King's sons as their ruler), not some half-Vanya over-reliant on her uncle for advice. The gold thread stitched into the hems of her green shawl catch the light of the torches, and here, she does not bear any of the scrutiny of the Vanyar, as some dark-haired half-Noldo aping their style of dress.

"How is Aunt Sildalinquë?" Findis asks, she who has always preferred silence and quiet suddenly wishing for something to break the unnatural hush. "And Almáriel, and Airamírë, and Élelindë, and Ingil?" All of Findis's maternal cousins are younger than she is. Ingil, the only son and youngest of the lot, is younger than Arafinwë and Findis's two oldest nephews. Not a child, by any means, old enough to be wed and have children of his own (though he is not), but still young, and a spike of worry for him and his sisters sticks in her throat and chest.

Ingwë doesn't quite meet her gaze as he responds, "Well, well."

Findis isn't the only one who understands how that sort of question is supposed to be answered, it seems. She nods and looks away, squeezing her eyes shut. She can just imagine how they're feeling, cloaked in darkness as they are, the Valar seeming to have turned their backs. _But I have sent missive after missive, and after the response that said that I was the only acceptable leader of my people, I have received nothing. I have been met with silence. Will they ever look towards us again? I could care less, but the people are frightened, and they need reassurance. Will the Valar ever look towards the Noldor again, and remember that not all of them listened to Fëanáro's words?_

"…And my mother?"

For a long time, Findis gets no answer, and the only sound is their footsteps against the empty, dusty street. Ingwë still refuses to meet her gaze, staring straight ahead. Her hand is on his arm, and he rests his hand atop of hers. "Child, your mother Indis is in mourning still. I have given her a house in the city, as you know, where she remains in seclusion. It is what she wishes."

Findis nods, still troubled, but slightly less. It could be worse.

She remembers a visit she took to Taniquetil along with Indis when she was small. It was before Nolofinwë was born, before Findis really understood why Fëanáro would not play with her and was so often unkind to her mother. Indis took her to see a traditional festival playing out in the midst of Taniquetil.

The festival, she knows now, is a somber one, mourning the Marring of Arda by the Hunter in the Dark. Findis did not understand then that the Hunter in the Dark was Melkor, or as he is now known, Moringotto. She did not understand what the Marring of Arda was, nor did she understand that it was supposed to be a festival of mourning. Festivals were supposed to be happy times, so she was very put out indeed when Indis would not let her wear her favorite green dress, but forced her into rough-spun gray dress and shawl instead.

_Keep that shawl up over your head, Findis, _she had said, uncharacteristically stern, _and do not complain at the lack of fine fabrics or jewels or anything else. This is no day of celebration._

Findis still did not understand, she was left totally unprepared for what she saw in the great square.

Neri and nissi in sackcloth, or else clothed head to foot in black, with only netted holes over the veils covering their faces, weaved about in the center of the square. What they were doing could not be called dancing; it was neither coordinated nor graceful enough for that. They waved their arms back and forth, twisted about, crashing into each other and barely seeming to notice. They wailed, and moaned, and screamed. Some of them beat and tore at their breasts. Findis had been reduced to a terrified mass quivering in her mother's lap before the day was out.

So long as Indis does not mourn in such a way, Findis can endure tears and crying. She does not think she could endure the terror of such a day as that one in her childhood again.

This is not exactly the edge of the city, nor even its outskirts; it is not so far from the center of Taniquetil, nor from the residence of the High King, that Indis would have any trouble relaying a message to her brother if she wished to reach him. That fact reassures Findis a little more, though preoccupied she remains. Ingwë points to a house on the corner where the high street and a side-road intersects, walled, and judging from the lime and rose trees, in possession of a courtyard as well. "There is Indis, if you wish to speak with her. Just know, child, that there has been a visitor in that house for some time now. You may not find your mother alone."

Findis does not stop to ask her uncle who this visitor is as she hastens towards the gate. If there is some visitor to her mother's home, they will not stand between mother and child. Findis has no intention of seeing them do so.

The gate is unlocked and Findis unlatches it easily. She hurries up the cobblestoned path, past trees and flowerbeds and the fountain quietly trickling, and comes to the front door, and knocks.

Soon enough, someone answers.

It is not Indis. Nor, by her dress, does it appear to be any servant that Indis might have.

Findis comes face to face with a slim, rather short nís with dull, dark silver hair and dark eyes, wearing a gray dress with gathered sleeves. No, this is not a servant, certainly not a Vanya. From that hair, Findis would on first glance name her a Teler, except the nís does not look like a Teler either—the shape of her face, her manner of dress, and something in her demeanor isn't right for a Teler. She rather puts Findis in mind of one of her own people. But that begs the question:

_Mother was not particularly well-loved even by those Noldor who did not follow Fëanáro. She had few friends indeed in Tirion. Who amongst the Noldor would be visiting her now?_

The two nissi stand in silence and stare at one another for a long time. The stranger stares up at Findis, distinctly appraising of this tall person who has appeared before the door. Finally, she calls, never taking her eyes off of Findis, "Indis? There's someone here at the door for you, I think, for I have no idea who would know to be looking for me here."

A few moments later, Indis appears at the door as well, hanging just behind the stranger's shoulder. She is dressed in gray as well, with a gray shawl hanging about her shoulders, not up over her head. For some reason, that makes Findis want to smirk; her mother would never put her shawl up over her head unless she did so for some ceremonial purpose, or because the weather had turned against her. But she sees the stretched expression on her mother's pale face, and all want to smile leaves her.

Almost mechanically, Indis moves past the stranger and enfolds her daughter in a loose embrace. She smells of the incense Findis can't remember her burning since she was little. "Daughter." Typical of quiet Indis, she says no more, and Findis can find nothing to say to her.

After a long moment, Indis releases her oldest child and draws back. Findis gets a long look at her, and realizes that she is wearing full Vanyarin dress as she's not done for several years. Indis came to Tirion dressing as a Vanya; the people complained of the influence she would have upon the King, that she would bring her "loose, decadent ways" to the city. Fëanáro fumed, and it was he who ultimately influenced Indis to abandon Vanyarin dress. Then, Indis adopted Noldorin fashions, and it was said that she was trying to make the people forget that she was not a Noldo, and that there had been a Queen here before her. Fëanáro was furious, taking this as a slight against him, believing that Indis attempted to play the Noldo the better to make everyone forget about Míriel. So the cycle, went, on, and on and _Why am I thinking about that now? Why do my thoughts keep wandering?_

She would rather think about anything but what she's come here to do, it seems.

Indis looks to the stranger. "It would seem that I have another guest. Shall we move back inside, Míriel?"

_Míriel?! Serindë?!_

_Fëanáro's mother…_

Findis gapes at the nís whom Indis named as Míriel. Míriel gives a twitching smile back, but that does absolutely nothing to defuse the awkwardness of the atmosphere that has descended over the porch. It would be rather difficult not to feel awkward, looking at a nís whom, as far as Findis was aware, was still dead, and whose death, moreover, was the only reason Findis was even born.

Indis, however, seems not to even notice that there should be some awkwardness between the three of them, and gives no explanation at all as to what Míriel Serindë is doing in her house. "Come along, Findis. And you as well, Míriel."

Nodding, swallowing down on her shock as best she can and telling herself that she can remain just as in control of herself as she normally does, Findis steps over the threshold. She looks at Míriel, one last time. _I need confirmation. _"Míriel… Serindë?" Findis asks uncertainly, brow furrowed.

Míriel's lips thin. "Þerindë, dear," she corrects her. There is no rancor in her voice, but that expression is Fëanáro's to the core, even if the disapproval on her face is no match for the worst her son could muster, and Findis can not be comfortable with it, nor with her. Míriel pats Findis's arm and points towards a side room. "Come along, mustn't keep your mother waiting."

The three of them settle down in a small sitting room with latticed oriel windows, gathered around a pitcher of water and metal goblets. Indis gathers a smile to her face that doesn't look strained so much as it looks too strained to strain anymore. "You seem surprised at my other guest, Findis."

"Perhaps a little," Findis mutters, eyes flickering from Indis, to Míriel, and back to Míriel. She tries to remember if Indis had ever made any mention of knowing her father's first wife, if there was ever any hint of Indis and Míriel Serindë (or _Þerindë, _as she does indeed seem to wish being known as) having some past association. Something to justify the mother of the nér who held Indis in such contempt coming to visit her after apparently having been released from Lord Námo's care. And in her memory, there is no recollection of Indis even mentioning Míriel aloud without being first prompted.

"I suppose the situation seems a bit awkward to you," Míriel remarks, not quite lightly, but without that unsettlingly Fëanáro-like air she'd had before. She leans back in her chair, sloshing the water in her goblet with a spoon. "Being in the same room with two nissi who were married to the same nér, when one of those nissi is your mother and such a thing had never happened in the Undying Lands before, and will likely never happen again."

Findis shrugs, a decidedly un-queenly gesture, and for some odd reason finds the most natural thing to say, "Well, I have always said that it was perhaps not the wisest idea to let technically non-corporeal beings whose only concept of marriage was a platonic partnership ordained by Ilúvatar decide what the laws and customs regarding marriage for corporeal beings who are, mostly, actually in possession of physical desire."

"Findis!" Indis exclaims, scandalized and scolding.

Míriel, on the other hand, tips her head back and howls with laughter. "Definitely," she chokes out between her laughs, "quite definitely Finwë's daughter. So very much her father's daughter." She wipes tears from her eyes and smiles over at Indis. Indis smiles back falteringly, looking as though she doesn't want Míriel to encourage Findis in her line of thinking, but it's the first genuine smile she's given. The first genuine smile Findis has seen on her face since before Finwë was killed. The tension in the air slides away, and this house feels more like a home.

But there is silence after this, Indis staring down into her cup and Findis staring at her mother, wondering how on earth she is to ask Indis to come back with her to a place where no one ever really accepted her, just because she is lonely. _Why did I even come? I know she will never be happy in Tirion again, but I still want her with me. I don't want to sit there alone, worrying about whether there will ever be an end to darkness, worrying about whether the Noldor will endure until they, or afterwards. I don't want to sit in Tirion alone._

The dark gaze of Míriel passes between mother and daughter. She rests her hand on the former's arm, and murmurs, "I'll be in the back garden, Indis." Indis nods, not looking up, and Míriel sweeps away, her voluminous gray skirts swishing behind her.

Indis says nothing, seeming quite intent on studying her reflection in the goblet. Findis often caught her doing that in Tirion, staring into a mirror sometimes for minutes on end. It wasn't the sort of preening or vanity it might have been in another person, though. Indis wasn't doing anything; she was just _staring_. The look on her face was hardly that of a nís enraptured with her own reflection. She was looking for something in her face, weary and bitter and uncertain, and never finding it. Findis never wanted to be near her mother when she was like this, always wandered away, to another part of the palace, or out of the palace, out of the city, into the countryside beyond. She doesn't want to be near her now, with that expression on Indis's face.

"So…" _This silence is unbearable _"…you are acquainted with Míriel Þerindë?"

Finally, Indis looks up, and her smile is one of those false ones Findis can hardly bear again. "We have been friends since we were young, before the departure from the Lake."

Findis raises an eyebrow. "And then you married her husband after she died."

Indis stares at her, and for one moment the look of naked pain on her face is so intense that Findis wonders if she won't begin to weep again, but she doesn't break gaze with her mother. "It's… It's not that simple, Findis," she says quietly.

No, it probably isn't. Nothing ever is, Findis finds.

"How are you?"

"Well," Findis replies, giving that rote, expected answer. "And you?"

"Well." Indis is another who knows how to answer that question, and this time, Findis knows it to be a lie. She does not weep and her face does not contort in the prelude of weeping, but she is not well. Her hands skate over the surface of her goblet. Her face is pale and wan, gaunt and haggard. Her eyes are shadowed and haunted. "How are Eärwen, and Anairë and Mercandil?"

"Fine."

Eärwen has returned to Alqualondë. Findis has to wonder at what sort of welcome she received; her family there will support her of course, but the survivors of the Kinslaying… If there is one thing that all of the Calaquendi have in common, it is that they are slow to forgive, and never forget. Eärwen married into the line that perpetrated the massacre of the Swan-Elves. None of her people will forget that.

Anairë refuses to leave the home she shared with her husband and children. Her entire family has fled Aman, not just the family she gained by marriage, but her parents and siblings as well. She is desolate, convinced that she will never see her kin again, and devastated over the deeds of her children and husband during the Kinslaying at Alqualondë.

Mercandil curses Lalwen for a fool in one breath, and weeps in despair of ever seeing her again in the next. He lost his kin in the Great Journey from the shores of the Lake. He and Lalwen had no children. Lalwen was all that he had, really.

"And Nerdanel?"

"She is well."

That is as close as Findis comes to not telling a lie. Nerdanel seems calm, and accepting. She dwells in a house on the outskirts of Tirion, and carries on her life as best she can. But Findis can not truly believe that Nerdanel is entirely well. How can she be?

"And you, daughter?"

"I am well, Mother."

Findis is lonely, and weary, and terrified of the future. All think her so calm, but she is terrified of what will become of the Noldor, what little of them are left. The future is bleak. There is so little hope, and she is so alone, and so afraid.

"I… I was hoping that you would come back to Tirion with me, Mother."

The look Indis gives her kills any hope of Findis's stone-dead in her chest. Incredulity and twisted pain mars an otherwise lovely face. Findis shakes her head, drawing a deep breath. "No, Findis. I can not do that. Not anymore."

"Mother, please—"

"_No, _daughter." Her voice trembles, and Indis stares off to the side, seemingly not daring to look her daughter, her only child remaining to her this side of the sea in the eye. "I was never welcome there," Indis says quietly, and though her voice no longer shakes, the echo of it is there. "Not really, you know that. You know why I always insisted on having Vanyar as my ladies-in-waiting, why I so rarely left the palace grounds under Laurelin's light. There were a few, a small number, who welcomed me, even loved me, but their voices were drowned out by the rest.

"It wasn't just those who cleaved to Fëanáro and the memory of Míriel who despised me. Most believed me to be nothing more than a foreign interloper. It had been a long time indeed since the Vanyar dwelled with the Noldor in Tirion upon Túna, and even then, there were divisions between us. They said that I was a loose woman, too free with my affections and too foreign for their liking. To them, I exerted far too much influence over your father for their liking."

Findis sighs. She remembers Indis having very little influence over Finwë, at least not in matters concerning his son by Míriel Þerindë, nor in matters in which Finwë had already come to a decision by the time Indis learned of them—which happened to be most of them.

"But worst of all…" Indis's lips thin into a bitter line "…worst of all, I diluted the blood of Finwë Noldóran." Findis flinches, and Indis must see that, but she goes on, "I diluted the royal line of the Noldor. I ensured that there would always be a strain of foreign blood in the royal line of the Noldor. Well…" Indis smiles a bitter smile, utterly unlike her; Findis does not think she has ever heard her sound so bitter "…that was simply unforgivable.

"I went to Tirion because I loved your father." She sounds tired now, more familiar territory. "I told myself that I could endure all scorn and hatred, from whatever quarter, in the name of the love I bore him and the love he bore me. I told myself that he needed me, and that was true. My heart was filled with hope." Her voice cracks; again, familiar territory. "But now your father is dead, and love no longer binds me. I can not go back and face that, not again, daughter. I know what they will say. I am tired of being blamed for all that goes wrong in Tirion."

_But you are _not _blamed for all that goes wrong! _Findis wants to cry out. She wants to leap up and shake her mother by the shoulders, something she has never done before, but with so much gone wrong, she's gone over the edge of the map and perhaps trying something new would set the world to right again. Indis has never before shown herself to be so bitter over the life she led in Tirion, not to her oldest child. Findis will be surprised if Indis has ever said as much to anyone before, for her mother has always told her children that to complain is to be churlish, and that to persevere is to be virtuous. But swallowing on complaints does not erase them. Findis has always known it to be so, and she sees that truth bear fruit now.

_And I will journey home alone…_

Findis opens her eyes when she feels a hand resting upon her cheek. Indis is crouched in front of her chair, smiling gently up at her. "You will be well. You will make a good, wise Queen. Never let any tell you otherwise. Never let any tell you that my blood taints you, makes you less of a Noldo. Míriel was right. You are like your father." Indis's eyes shine over-bright in the gloom. "You are strong." _But you have never been as weak as you think you are. _"Go in peace, daughter."

It's all Findis can do to nod, kiss her mother's cheek, and maintain a steady, unfaltering pace as she leaves.

In the dark of the foyer, there is a nís standing alone, pressing her left fist to her mouth. She wears a dark dress, and has a black shawl up over her head, hiding her hair from view. A silver betrothal ring glints on her finger. Findis and Amarië's eyes meet in the dark, and the latter sketches a curtsey. "Highness."

Yes, _Highness_. Best get used to hearing it out of the mouths of the Noldor. There's nothing else to do.

* * *

Arafinwë—Finarfin  
Fëanáro—Fëanor  
Nolofinwë—Fingolfin  
Melkor, Moringotto—Morgoth

Calaquendi—Elves of Light; the Elves who came to Aman from Cuiviénen, or were born there, especially during the Years of the Trees (singular: Calaquendë) (Quenya)  
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)  
Neri—men (singular: nér)


End file.
